


happy fucking birthday to me

by bekkaHo



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Non-Linear Narrative, Witch!Seonghwa, cursed!jongho, grim reaper!yeosang, witch!hongjoong
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28475844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bekkaHo/pseuds/bekkaHo
Summary: Everyone who makes skin-to-skin contact with Jongho is doomed to die on the twelfth of october, Jongho's birthday. No matter how many years it takes, theywilldie on that day.But what if there's one person who will never die, no matter how many times Jongho touches them? It would do wonders on Jongho's lonely little heart, that's for sure.
Relationships: Choi Jongho/Kang Yeosang
Kudos: 22





	1. prologue: 12 october 2010

**Author's Note:**

> wasn't gonna post this yet, since i haven't finished writing it, but... maybe?
> 
> also, all ages stated are western, not korean!

The first time he met the Grim Reaper, Jongho had been ten years old for eleven hours.

He’d been curled up on a stiff chair next to his mother’s bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest falter under the thin hospital bedsheet, and he had hardly managed to scramble to his feet when he heard the door swing open.

Immediately, he straightened, looking over, but instead of finding his father in the doorway, a young boy stood. He was small, and appeared even more so, drowning in a large black jumper as he was, hood covering light hair and hiding the boy’s face.

Jongho frowned, not recognising the intruder. “You’re in the wrong room,” he stated, firm. Because of course he was, and he was interrupting the time Jongho had with his mother.

The boy lifted his head and peered into the room through pale bangs, at Jongho, then his mother lying on the bed. He shook his head at Jongho, then walked into the room.

“Hey!” Jongho shouted in a whisper, fearing his mother’s sleep may be disturbed. “You’re in the wrong room, I said. I don’t know who you are.” He looked at his mother’s calm face and clutched her hand. His frowned deepened; something was wrong. In his peripheral, he saw the boy stop at the foot of the bed. His mother looked paler than usual.

Audibly, the boy drew in a deep breath. Jongho whirled to face him. “Go away! Seriously, go!” His breath hitched as panic began to seep into his veins. Were her breaths so shallow, he couldn’t see them? Or was he moving too much to tell?

Sandwiched between his smaller palms, his mother’s limp hand was warm, though cooler than his own, as she often was.

He saw the boy move in his peripheral and saw him stop on the other side of his mother. He tightened his hold on her hand. “Who are you? Do you know my mum or something?” he demanded.

The boy’s head remained lowered, but Jongho saw him give a short nod after a moment of pause. His irritation rose. He still hadn’t answered his first question.

Scowling intently at the other boy, Jongho almost missed his small hand that reached over to touch his mother’s free one. “Hey. Hey! Get away from her!” he all but screamed.

The boy looked up and met his eyes, looking incredibly saddened. He turned away, then walked over to press the device that Jongho recognised to be the one his mother would use when she woke up each day, to summon her nurse.

“What are you doing?!” he shrieked uselessly, even though he already knew.

Jongho felt his heart leaping out of his chest when the nurse suddenly barrelled through the doorway, door still open from the other boy’s entry. He watched, frozen, as the nurse rushed over to his mother.

“Oh, Jongho…” he heard, but anything else that was said was lost to the sound of his heartbeat crashing in his ears.

“What did you do?” he wanted to yell at the boy, but all that left his trembling lips was a sob. Even through his blurred vision, he could see that the boy was gone.

Just like his mother.


	2. chapter 1: twenty, 12 october 2020

Today marked the tenth year after Jongho’s mother’s death, and the fourth after his father’s. He wondered how many people would die today— how many people already had? He glanced at the time displayed on his phone. Just past twelve.

Jongho sighed internally and changed the pace of the treadmill to a slow jog.

When he got to the locker room half an hour later, he was glad to find it empty. Not that he’d expected anyone to be there, given the hour, but he was relieved nonetheless.

As Jongho threw off his jumper and peeled of the layers of clothes that clung to his skin, he finally felt like he could breathe, even as an instinctual discomfort arose when the cool air touched his exposed skin.

He shoved the feeling down, but whipped his head around to do a cursory scan of the open room again, just to be safe. He was still alone.

Resisting the urge to look again, Jongho walked into a shower cubicle and dutifully ignored the pang in his chest at the thought.

***

Jongho’s heart stopped when he heard footsteps approaching his cubicle, just as he’d turned the water off and wrapped a towel around his body. He held his breath and wondered if he should just wait until they left.

A slow minute passed, and he began to towel off, trying to ignore the twinge of irritation that crept in when the unwanted presence began to hum a nonsensical tune. Badly.

_Fuck it,_ he thought when the off-key notes bounced off tiled walls and jammed into Jongho’s ears like jackhammers. With maybe a little too much aggression, he kicked the cubicle door open and revelled in the abrupt silence following its slam against the adjacent wall.

Jongho met the stranger’s wide eyes and gaping mouth with a glare, stalking towards his pile of haphazardly discarded clothes on the bench, only to be stopped short by a warm palm and long fingers on his arm.

_Well, fuck._ He fought the shiver that came with the foreign sensation of human touch.

Belatedly, he tightened his hold on his towel draped over his hips as he faced the now doomed man. Unfortunately, the movement did not go unnoticed, and he felt the drag of the man’s gaze on his skin.

_He’s already touched you,_ his mind whispered. Jongho’s fingers twitched.

He looked at the man, his unfamiliar features, his long, tousled hair half tied up, his taller, leaner body. The faint sheen of perspiration on pale skin.

_He must have just come from the gym,_ Jongho thought idly, and stepped forward, dropping his towel on the bench. The man’s stare turned half-lidded.

Perhaps not such an unwanted presence, after all.

***

Hair wet but fully dressed, Jongho sat on the bench of the locker room with the other man’s head in his lap, waiting. Not so much a stranger anymore, he supposed, with how familiar he’d become with his body.

Hyunjin, he’d told Jongho after their first kiss. Jongho had silenced him with another and tried to forget the name, but he gave his own easily when asked.

He threaded his fingers gently through Hyunjin’s damp, bleached locks soothingly when he whimpered and his face pinched with pain. Jongho’s gloves laid beside him, his duffel bag packed, ready to go, but he’d waited. Maybe because he didn’t want him alone. Maybe because the guilt was strangling him.

“They’ll be here soon,” he assured him. Hyunjin’s grip on Jongho’s hand tightened. “Just hold on.”

Meaningless words, he knew.

_This is your fault_ , his mind accused. He knew that, too.

***

Heart attack, they’d told him as they rolled Hyunjin out, even though he hadn’t asked, and hadn’t wanted to know.

He didn’t think any of the paramedics had touched him, but he couldn’t be sure. He always feltnumb after something like this happened. It felt like he was drowning.

He shouldn’t have gotten so attached. Should have cut off every laugh and moan, should have looked away from kind eyes hazy with lust.

He should have walked away instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh, sorry for roping hyunjin into this only for him to die. um. i really didn't mean for it to be him.


	3. chapter 2: fifteen, 11 october 2016

****It was Jongho’s birthday tomorrow, he mused as he watched the still water of the river on the horizon, untouched by the hectic blurs of cars, trees, and nondescript buildings. He wished he could say he was like that calm body of water, but more often than not, he felt like the receding tide, shying away from others.

Less than seven hours, and he’d be sixteen.

The bus halted, and he jerked forward in his seat, but his eyes continued to linger on the horizon and the clouds that hovered low with the sun. That unruffled calmness. He tore his gaze away with a sigh and stood up, adjusting the weight of his schoolbag on his shoulder. The only other person on the bus was the driver, who told him to have a good night when Jongho stepped out into the cloying afternoon air after tagging off. He nodded in their general direction, not trusting his voice behind his face mask, not looking up beneath the brim of his cap.

The living room was cool and dim when Jongho entered his house, not ten minutes later, but he saw light escaping into the hallway, running from under the door of his parent’s room— his father’s room. He padded over, cutting off the streams of light, and rapped on the door with his knuckle. When he heard no response, he twisted the doorknob and glanced inside.

When he couldn’t find him, he opened the door wider and dropped his bag outside the room before walking in. He froze, feeling as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus.

His body shook with a spike of adrenaline as he rushed forward to the crumpled body of his father, but his mind still hadn’t thawed. His hands felt weak as he struggled to yank off his gloves to check his father’s pulse. Nausea swam in his gut and behind his eyes in the time it took to find the slow, rhythmic thud, persisting even after he found it.

Almost frantically, Jongho analysed the scene around him, trying to regain control of his breathing. There were a handful of books strewn around his father, and he looked up to see the collapsed shelf they must have fallen from. His father must have tripped, and after a quick scan of his smooth palms, Jongho realised his father must have been holding some when he’d fallen, otherwise he would have caught himself.

_What am I doing?_ He was wasting time, he realised, and cursed himself. He yanked his phone from his pocket and rung triple-zero.

***

Somehow, he was here again, sitting in a stiff chair, waiting for his parent to wake up. Even though the room was different, and he couldn’t draw his legs up on the chair, the foreboding sense of déjà vu sunk heavy in his veins.

He dug his blunt nails into the wood of the armrest, and he watched the striated surface give under the pressure.

“Jong… ho,” a voice rasped. Jongho’s head snapped up at the weak call. His father was awake. He was _alive._

He floundered for a moment, then stood to press the nurse button in a daze of relief. He lowered himself back into the chair, unsteady as a stinging heat rose in his throat and his eyes.

Alive.

***

“Jongho,” his father repeated, as the nurse finally vacated the room. His voice was stronger now.

“Dad?” He wasn’t shaking as badly, now, but he could still feel the residual rot in his stomach.

“We need to talk about something.” It was disconcerting, because he and his father rarely took the time to make conversation. “I’ve made a… an appointment for a consultation.”

Now Jongho was confused. “Why, what’s wrong? Is it your—“

“It’s for you, Jongho,” he cut off, “so you’ll need to take a day off school. Which day works best for you?”

Jongho frowned. “You already booked the appointment, didn’t you? And what’s this for?”

His father shook his head minutely. “It’s more of a walk-in consultation. Think of it more as a check-up.”

That was not how his usual general practitioner operated. “What’s wrong with Doctor Bang?”

“Nothing, nothing. This is a different sort of check-up. Don’t worry, son, Kim Hongjoong is one of the best out there.” He reached over to pat Jongho’s hand, a rather awkward motion. He’d never realised how thin his father had gotten. “Now, it’s gotten quite late, birthday boy.”

Jongho startled at the nickname and looked over to the clock. He was right, it had just ticked past midnight. He smiled over at his father, but saw his eyes fluttering closed.

“Oh. Goodnight, Dad,” he whispered.

His eyes would never open again.


	4. chapter 3: sixteen, 12 october 2016

That day, Jongho walked out of the hospital sixteen years old, and an orphan. He hardly remembered taking the bus back home, and when he found himself drawn to the still illuminated room and the mess of books on the floor, he didn’t think about how the house and everything it contained was now _his._ He didn’t think about how he would have to manage finances or cut down portions so he fed only _himself_.

Jongho’s mind was vacant as he forced himself to walk out of that room, almost tripping on his schoolbag on the way out, and robotically find his way in his bed, regardless of what time it was.

He closed his eyes against the feeling that he was the last forgotten drop of water at the bottom of a glass.

***

****He was sitting in the doorway of his father’s room, some indeterminate length of time later, after he’d grown sick of lying awake in his bed and had crawled out to find his way here.

Absently, he remembered that it was a school day, and that he had some sort of test on, when his ragged schoolbag got caught in his unfocused gaze, but the thought fled his mind as quickly as it had come.

Jongho blew out a harsh breath and knocked his head back against the wall. It wasn’t the first time he’d sat here like this. He remembered the days after his mother’s death, just six years ago, where he would watch dust motes fall, waiting.

Waiting for his father to come back from work— or wherever the hell he always disappeared off to.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even come home, leaving Jongho to pick himself off the floor and remind himself that even though he barely felt it, there was still someone in this world for him.

He knew, of course, that this time his father would never come home, and that it was useless to sit here like a broken rag doll, but still, he sat. Still, he waited.

Waited to feel anything other than the usual emptiness.

Jongho looked at the mess of books on the floor, near the back of the room, where the bookshelves lined up, and at the broken shelf responsible. _I should probably clean that up._

He didn’t move for a moment, weighed down by gravity, but forced himself onto dead legs with a grunt.

When he managed to hobble over and crouch down to sluggishly scoop up the fallen books, he froze suddenly, struck with mistimed realisation.

_This is where I found him yesterday. This is what caused his death._

Jongho hadn’t listened when the doctors informed him of the exact cause, and he still didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter. He was gone, anyway.

But even so, it didn’t stop Jongho’s hands from shaking so hard he dropped the book he’d been holding, repulsed. Then he stopped and berated himself. _If I leave these books here, it’ll be me cracking my skull like an egg._

Nausea sparked in his belly at the thought and he dropped the book again. Not that there was any blood, or really any evidence of his father’s fall besides the books.

_Fucking hell,_ he thought, and stood up, recoiling too fast. He liked the emptiness better. He stumbled, momentarily blinded by white spots in his vision, and steadied himself on his father’s desk.

Weary and exhausted by his thoughts and bleak memories, Jongho fell back into his father’s desk chair, feeling his head sink with the pain of an upcoming migraine.

***

There was business card on top of a short, haphazard stack of business papers that Jongho would generally not have noticed, if not for the fluorescent sticky note with his name on it stuck to it. He straightened in the chair, leaning over to get a better look and fingered the sweeping strokes that made his name on the small piece of paper, marked with black ink. It was his father’s handwriting, obviously, but Jongho hardly recognised it. Maybe he’d seen it on the odd note left somewhere in the house, the shopping list on the fridge that Jongho mainly contributed to, and maybe he’d received a store-bought birthday card with Jongho’s name written alongside the generic printed message. Any school related forms were always filled in by Jongho, his father’s only mark his messy business-type signature.

He pinched the sticky note between his fingers and lifted it, bringing the business card with it, and cradled it in his palm. He stared at his name for a moment longer, then blinked and peeled it off. The card it revealed was almost too colourful to be considered professional, but was designed just so it toed the line of childish and professional. It was a startling contrast against the dull decor of Jongho’s father’s room. Then he choked when he saw the words embellished on the card.

**_Kim Hongjoong_ **

**_Witch, Apothecary and Magical Specialist_ **

Strangely, there were no contact details given. _What the fuck, Dad._ Jongho flipped the card over, but the other side was blank where a logo should be printed. He turned it again, half expecting the text to be different, but when he did, the same words beamed up at him. _What the actual fuck, Dad._

He remembered his father’s words at the hospital. _Walk-in consultation. Check-up._ He looked at the name on the card. _Kim Hongjoong. Well, Dad didn’t say this guy was a doctor for a reason,_ he thought hysterically. Still, his mind reeled. _What the_ fuck _, Dad._

Unsure what to do, Jongho stood up and went to drop the card, but hesitated and pocketed it instead, along with the sticky note. His head was a mess and he felt unsteady on his feet as he shuffled over to the door. He’d already been in this room for too long.

There had been a period of time when there had been an influx of rumours of some upperclassmen and magic of some sort, but the topic died down too quick for Jongho to hear anything of interest, and he’d forgotten about it the day after. He’d thought it was some kind of bad joke, at the time.

So why did Jongho’s father want to bring him to a witch?

Jongho stumbled out to the kitchen to fix himself a glass of water to clear his mind, and he realised he hadn’t drunk or eaten anything since yesterday afternoon. _No wonder I feel so dizzy_ , he thought warily, though he knew it wasn’t entirely the reason.

He braced himself on the island, leaning against the cool marble. He didn’t want to think about his father’s death and what that meant for Jongho. Didn’t want to dwell on the familiar loneliness that seemed to be growing by the minute, every time he realised his father would never come back home.

_Shit._ He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Even though he hadn’t eaten, the thought of forcing food down his throat was unappealing. _What do I do?_

The still air in the house was stifling in its silence, suffocating Jongho the more he stood in the kitchen. He needed to get out.

He pulled the business card out of his pocket, along with the sticky note, running his thumb over its edges, tracing the decorated letters. The name, the occupations. No address, no phone number, no website. _Who the hell is this guy?_

_***_

“Choi Jongho?”

Jongho turned sharply at the low call of his name and pulled his key out of the door after locking it. A young man stood a few metres away, posture casual, but expectant, like he had been waiting for him.

“Yes?” His voice sounded rough with disuse and he cleared his throat, but said nothing further. The man was evidently older than Jongho, though maybe not by much. Taller, too. Jongho didn’t recognise him.

“You have an appointment with Kim Hongjoong. I’m here to escort you.” The words were smooth and certain, like he were stating a known fact. _What._

Jongho couldn’t help the sneer that twisted his face. “And who the fuck are you?” He adjusted his grip on his key and slid his fist into the pocket of his jacket. _Kim Hongjoong._ Was this guy a witch, too?

The man responded patiently. “My name is Park Seonghwa. You need to see Hongjoong. Please come with me, Jongho.” _He sounds like a robot._ He then smiled politely, and then turned, starting along the path to some destination, clearly expecting Jongho to follow.

Jongho stared after him with disbelief and a fair serve of irritation, though he debated actually following him. _And risk getting murdered in broad daylight?_ Though he was sure he could hold his own in a fight, with his training in boxing, he knew better than to follow a stranger to an unknown destination.

_And what the fuck is this about Kim Hongjoong? What sort of appointment required an escort? Especially one Jongho didn’t even know the details about._

****Jongho stepped off the porch and took off in the opposite direction.

*******

****Over the sounds of the birds, the wind in the leaves, and his own measured breathing, Jongho heard the footsteps before he saw the man. He’d gone to the park on a whim, deciding he needed to run away from his thoughts. The area was more of an oval, really, but the place was deserted, since it was midday on a weekday.

But not even a full hour into his run and his fleeting peace was disrupted by the presence of another.

“Choi Jongho,” he panted beside him.

Jongho didn’t bother turning to see who it was. He recognised the voice from earlier, though breathy from exertion. Instead, he quickened his pace. _Can this guy not take a hint?_

“Ugh,” he heard. “You dick!” _Not such an emotionless robot, then._ The man sped up to meet Jongho’s pace again.

Jongho looked at the sky for answers it would not give. There were few enough clouds for him to be able to see the white moon against blue. He made a sound of annoyance when the man spoke again.

“Jongho—“

“Fuck off,” he said, voice flat. His breathing was also a lot steadier than the other’s, he noted smugly. He picked up the pace again and was pleased not to hear footsteps follow.

However, when he neared the end of the path, which cut off to a small parking lot, he was greeted by the sight of the man sitting on one of the barricades. His dark grey hair was messier than he’d seen it before, face flushed. _How the hell did he get here?_

“Jongho, please listen to me.” His breathing was no longer laboured, his voice steady once more, though Jongho detected a hint of annoyance in his tone.

Jongho wrinkled his nose and turned to retrace his steps, keeping his momentum.

He blinked, and the man appeared a few metres in front of him. Forcing himself to slow to a stop, he looked behind him. Then turned back to face the man. “Should you be flaunting your magic in public?” he couldn’t help but ask. _So teleportation was a thing, apparently._

“There’s no one here, but us, Jongho.” _What was this guy’s name again?_ “Please, listen to me.”

Jongho glanced around for a way to dodge him again, but found no effective escape route. He grit his teeth and sighed in defeat. “What.”

“You need to see Kim Hongjoong. He’s a Magical Specialist, which I’m sure you already knew,” he said, eyes flicking down to Jongho’s pocket. Jongho noticed his eyes were unusually light coloured, like glass. “You seem to carry traces of dark magic,” he observed.

Jongho curled his lip. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean? I have magic?”

The man sighed and looked Jongho in the eye. “No. Rather, I suspect you’ve been cursed.”

Shock struck Jongho in the gut and he jolted. Then, he laughed. It was an unnatural sound, one his body hardly knew how to make. When was the last time he’d laughed?

The man was not amused, brow pinched in what seemed to be a mixture of concern and annoyance. “Jongho, I’m being serious. You need to see Hongjoong so he can determine what kind of curse you have.”

Jongho’s laughter faded and he rolled his eyes with a scoff. “If I even _have_ a curse.” _And, what, does it mean I’m dying or something? Not like there’s anyone around to miss me when I do._ He stilled at the thought, pursing his lips slightly.

“Jongho.” The man paused, scrutinising Jongho’s expression. “If it so happens that you _are_ cursed, finding its effects will help us to determine ways to prevent it from hurting you or others.”

_Others?_ Jongho froze, breath stuck in his throat. The image of his father lying unconscious on the floor flashed behind his eyelids when he blinked. “Why would other people be hurt if I’m the one who’s supposedly cursed?”

The man looked out to the river beside them, and watched the swans resting on its surface. “There are many kinds of curses, each which punish their victims in many different ways. Who knows what kind yours may be.” He turned back to look at Jongho. “So, please. Let me take you to Hongjoong.”

_Did Dad know something about this? Is that why he was going to take me?_ He looked away from those crystal eyes. “Fine.” _Was it because of my curse that I’m now an orphan?_


End file.
